“I swear it wasn’t my fault,” I said again. “I didn’t try to use it as a parachute; I didn’t drop it or lose it or throw it into traffic; and I didn’t try to use it as a fencing foil.”

His expression became stonier.

“Not that any of those things has ever occurred to me!” I corrected hastily. “Or that I’ve ever tried any of those things with your umbrella. It’s just that, the first time you ever let me use your umbrella, you specifically told me never to do any of those things with it. So I haven’t. See.” I cleared my throat.

“This,” he began slowly, looking as though the words physically pained him. He paused. He swallowed. “This umbrella.” Another pause and another swallow. “Was your great-great-great grandfather’s.” He shut his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear to utter the next words. “It’s from the Antebellum, Jean. The Antebellum.”

“But then I whacked ‘im over the ‘ead wi’ me bumbershoot, and lemme tell ye, that gopher hain’t likely to be pesterin’ me cabbages anymore!”

There was an explosion of enthusiastic applause from every member of the club. Sir Miles leaned back contentedly in his chair, savoring the sound and affectionately patting the handle of that same bumbershoot which was the co-star of his narrative. As the noise died down, he leaned forward again and cleared his throat.

“Now,” he said. “Have I ever told ye all what me storied grandfather did wi’ this here fine tool?”

Everyone else gazed at him expectantly. This was going to be a good one.

This was already hilarious, and then the dialogue made it *even better*. I do, however, want to hear about what his storied grandfather did with the bumbershoot. (That said, being able to use “storied grandfather” and “bumbershoot” in a sentence together has nearly evaporated my disappointment.)